


My Sleepy Blue Ocean

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Scrubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-08
Updated: 2004-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-25 01:38:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1624688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for Propaganda</p>
    </blockquote>





	My Sleepy Blue Ocean

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Propaganda

 

 

It's true that you go through the five stages of grief when you lose a   
parent, but I've found you also experience a sixth stage that I like   
to call reminderism. You know, like when you hear a song your dead   
father used to like, or you get a whiff of the cologne he used to wear   
when you were a kid, or you find yourself sculpting a likeness of his   
face with your mashed potatoes, and you're _reminded_. I'm   
pretty sure reminderism is the stage that lasts the longest.

I coined the term reminderism one afternoon when I was sitting in the   
cafeteria as "Annie's Song" drifted from the loudspeaker and Ted sat   
two tables over, wearing too much aftershave. Turk rolled in from a   
very successful appendectomy and plopped down in the chair across from   
mine. He dug into my lunch with all the fervor of a man who had   
moments before been elbow-deep inside the belly of a twelve year old. "Man, I   
love   
mashed potatoes!"

"Hey!" I cried. "Turk, you're eating my dad!"

"I'm sorry, JD." Turk mournfully dropped my fork. "I thought it was   
just good eats."

Reminderism. It'll get you when you least expect it.

 

 

 

My first indication that I might be having a little bit of trouble   
coping with my father's death came earlier that morning, from the janitor.   
Okay, my   
first indication actually came the afternoon I stood outside the hospital's   
weekly Daddy and Me class and wept like a two year old with diaper   
rash, but my second indication definitely came from the janitor. He   
left a note on my locker, stuck there with a magnet he undoubtedly   
stole from the personal effects of Mr. Levine, also known as The Guy   
Who Swallows Magnets.

It was a poem, titled 'Untitled'. The janitor's handwriting was hard   
to read, but I was able to make out something about shirts and the   
color of the sky. I went looking for the janitor and found him   
squatting on the floor, oiling up our supply of wheelchairs.

"What's this?" I asked, waving the poem dramatically in front of him.

"It's a poem."

"I know it's a poem," I said. "What I mean is, why did you give it to   
me? Is it covered in itching powder or something?"

The janitor looked up at me, squinting as if he were staring into the   
face of the sun. I wondered why he was doing that and then realized   
the overhead lights were gleaming off my stethoscope. I didn't move.   
The janitor said, "It's from a little book I published in my basement   
called _Chicken Soup for the Mourner's Soul_. I wrote that poem   
when I lost my favorite pair of socks in the dryer. That was a rough   
time for me. I thought you could relate."

How did the janitor know that I, too, lost my favorite pair of socks   
in the dryer? Was he spying on me again? I looked at him, filled   
with wonder and a little bit of fear, and put my hands on my hips.   
"How did you know that I, too, lost my favorite pair of socks in the   
dryer? Janitor, are you spying on me again?"

"I didn't give you the poem because of your socks," he said. "It was   
for something else you lost recently."

"What have I lost recently besides my - oh." Who knew that beneath   
his cold, calculating, and hateful exterior beat the heart of one   
thoughtful, self-published janitor? I began to reread the poem,   
taking it in with new eyes. "What's this word?"

The janitor leaned up to look where I was pointing. "Lint trap."

"I think lint trap is two words."

"Come on, now, it's the thought that counts."

As I walked away, folding the poem up and sliding it into my pocket, I   
heard the wheelchair wheels squeaking and the janitor whispering, "Oil   
can, oil can."

 

 

 

Later that day, Dr. Cox, apparently for lack of anything better to do,   
followed me as my residents and I made rounds. There wasn't much   
out of the ordinary: an elderly lady with a broken hip, an overweight   
guy with high blood pressure and a boil, two construction workers shot with nail   
guns after their foreman had what the local news described as "one   
very bad day".

"You know," I said to Dr. Cox as one of my residents was being   
interviewed for the six o'clock broadcast, "I never thanked you for   
coming over that night after my father died."

"Nonsense, Calista. That's what acquaintances who grit their teeth in barely   
controlled   
contempt at each others' mere presence are for."

"Contempt?" I tilted my head thoughtfully to the side. "I tend to   
think of it more as disdain."

"You say potato, I say po-tah-to. The point is, Nancy, it's nothing I   
wouldn't have done for - actually, I wouldn't have done it for anybody   
else. Come to think of it, I can't remember why I did it at all."   
Dr. Cox folded his arms across his chest as I continued to eye him.

"Is it because you, like the janitor, secretly have a heart of gold?"

"I just said I don't know why I did what I did, but I can assure you   
that, if I ever discover the reason, it won't have anything to do with   
gold anything."

As Dr. Cox explained to me in detail why I wasn't worthy of any sort   
of kind gestures on his behalf, I found myself tuning out both him and   
Christina Lynden from Channel Six.

"Julianne, did you hear anything I just said to you?"

"Yes, sir, Dr. Cox." I did my best to stand up straight. "Every word."

He regarded me with an expression that was definitely disdainful.   
"Then perhaps you'd like to explain to me why one of your brilliant   
residents is removing the nail in that beleaguered construction worker's finger   
through   
the entrance wound instead of the exit."

I looked over at the beds and realized he was right. Rushing over, I   
called to Christina Lynden, "Get that camera out of here!" I pulled the privacy   
curtain around the bed for extra...privacy and felt, just for a second,   
like a bit of a bad-ass.

I heard Dr. Cox ask, "You all right there, Conchita?" Over my   
shoulder I could see him through an opening in the curtain.

I nodded. "Never better!"

 

 

 

I found Carla in the last place I thought to look. Literally. After bribing   
Channel Six not   
to use all the footage they shot, I spent an hour scouring every nook and cranny   
of the   
hospital only to find Carla in the chapel.

"Carla," I panted. "I've been looking all over for you!"

"You could've just had me paged, Bambi," she said.

The woman speaks the truth, I thought.

"Can we take this out to the hall?" She made a face at me. "You're sweating   
all over the   
pews. What have you been doing, anyway?"

"Looking for you," I said, wiping my brow. "And I stopped to play a game of   
pick-up   
basketball with some neighborhood kids. But mostly, looking for you. What are   
you   
doing down here?"

We stepped into the hall and I noticed that Carla was doing her best to stand   
downwind   
of me. "I was looking for Sister Utherina. Have you seen her?"

Sister Utherina is Sacred Heart's grief counselor. She is also Sacred Heart's   
oldest   
employee at 87 years young. Dr. Kelso likes to keep her around to help break   
tough   
news to families. And because she promised him that Willard Scott will mention   
Sacred   
Heart by name on-air on her next birthday.

"Well, she wasn't in the cafeteria, the morgue, my-slash-Elliot's office, the   
janitorial   
closet, prep room five, the parking lot, or the park, so, no, I haven't seen   
her." I took a   
step forward, placed my hand on Carla's arm, and tried to be sensitive. "Did   
someone   
die?"

"Yeah," she said. "My mother."

"Carla, your mother died two years ago!"

"And here I was, thinking you were trying to be sensitive." Carla leaned back   
against   
the wall. "If you must know, Bambi, I come down and talk to Sister Utherina   
sometimes   
when I'm missing my mom."

"Oh."

I'd been so wrapped up in my own feelings of "I'm halfway to being an orphan and   
all I   
got was this lousy funeral program" that I didn't even think to tap into the   
vast resource   
that was Carla. She had two years of grieving on me! I could really learn a   
thing or two.

"Is it helpful?" I asked. "Talking to Sister Utherina, I mean."

Carla nodded. "Sure. I wanted to see her because this morning, I was draining   
a boil on   
the ass of an old Italian guy and I had to cut around a tattoo that said   
'Priscilla'."

I tried to be sensitive again. "Was that your mom's name?"

"No, but when I was a kid, she used to worry that my brother would grow up to be   
prissy."

"A ha!" I said. "Reminderism!"

"Yes!" Carla flung herself into my arms, eyes shining.

"Hug it out, Carla," I said. "Hug it out."

Just then, I heard the heavy footsteps of a hungry Turk approaching. "If it   
isn't my two   
favorite girls." And then he noticed Carla crying. "Baby, what'd this jackhole   
do to   
you?"

"Nothing, baby." She wiped her eyes on my sweaty shirt. "Bambi and I were just   
talking   
about our dead parents."

"Sounds like a real knee-slapper." Turk put his arm around Carla. "Come on,   
baby, let's   
go get something to eat." He looked at me. "I'll steer clear of the mashed   
potatoes this   
time, man, I promise."

They were halfway down the hall when Carla turned around. "Why were you looking   
for me?"

"Dr. Cox wants to see you," I said. "The boil guy's not doing so hot."

 

 

 

After the basketball game and Carla's snotfest, I was feeling less than squeaky   
clean, so I   
headed to my locker to change my shirt. When I got there, my locker was empty   
except   
for an advance copy of the janitor's book. Turns out he'd just pasted his   
poetry into a   
Betty Crocker cookbook and written _Chicken Soup for the Mourner's Soul_ in   
black   
marker on the cover. I'd never known a real author before! I had just opened   
the book   
to a poem about squirrels and settled in for a good read when I noticed Sister   
Utherina   
lurking in the shadows with a lit cigarette in her hand.

"You're not supposed to smoke in the hospital," I told her.

"What are they going to do, child, fire me?"

I shrugged. "Maybe."

"Two words," she said. "Willard. Scott."

"Good point. But ol' Willard won't keep you from going up in flames if you   
stand too   
close to an oxygen tank."

"You doctors think you're so smart," she said, but dropped the cigarette to the   
floor and   
ground it out with the heel of her sensible, pious shoe. "What're you reading?"

I showed Sister Utherina the janitor's book and, thinking about my conversation   
with   
Carla, asked her for advice on how to cope with the six stages of grief.

"What do you usually do when you're going through a rough time?" she asked.

I thought about this. "I talk to my boy Turk, throw myself into my work, make   
mad love   
with Dr. Reid."

"Do that then," Sister Utherina said. "Do all of that except the sex. You know   
the man   
upstairs doesn't approve."

"You mean God?"

"No, I mean Dr. Mortimer on the tenth floor. He's a real prude."

I thanked Sister Utherina for her guidance and the butterscotch disc she pressed   
into my   
hand as we parted, and considered her advice. I knew that Turk was busy eating   
dinner, and I didn't want to mess things up with Elliot now that she was finally   
talking   
to me again, so I decided that I would buckle down and become the best co-chief   
resident this hospital had ever seen.

Unfortunately, when you're throwing yourself into your work to avoid dealing   
with   
your father's death and your work involves telling the son of a fat Italian man   
that his   
father has just died, the technique can prove a little counterproductive.

It was always hard to deliver bad news to a patient's family, but as I listened   
to Sister   
Utherina whisper tobacco-tinged prayers while I talked about infection and heart   
failure, I began to understand the implications of the loss of life in a whole   
new way.   
This was my job, but for our patients and their families, it was the whole   
world.

"Throw yourself into your work," I heard Sister Utherina say. "What do you do?"

"I'm a mortician," the man said.

"God bless you."

 

 

 

That night at home, I found myself feeling very out of sorts. So I did what I   
usually do   
when I'm feeling out of sorts: I hunkered down with a bowl of pork rinds and   
reruns of   
_The Golden Girls_. In previous times of trouble, the sexual antics of Bea   
Arthur et al   
never failed to make me smile. But on this night, I just couldn't stop thinking   
about my   
dad.

I looked around the apartment, thinking of one of the last times he was here and   
imagined him asking me to pull his finger and shouting "Yee haw!" as he   
drunkenly   
tried to ride on Rowdy's back. Those were heady days. I was thinking he   
would've   
been a good person to talk to, if I'd ever really tried talking to him. I'd   
always thought of   
him more like a friend than a father, and I think that's what was making me so   
sad, that   
now I'd never have the chance to think of him as anything else.

"Whether or not you thought of him as your father, Alice, he was. And it's okay   
to be   
sad about the fact that he's dead. God help me, it's even okay to cry, if you   
do it in the   
privacy of your own home where no one else can see."

I wheeled around and there was Dr. Cox, standing in the doorway. "How did you   
get in   
here?" I shrieked. "And how did you know what I was just thinking?"

"Spare key," he said, patting his pocket. "You've gotta come up with somewhere   
to hide   
this that's a little more creative than the potted plant. It's like you wanted   
me to find it.   
And you weren't thinking, Mabel, you were talking to yourself. There is a   
difference."

"I do that a lot. You know," I said pointedly, "in the privacy of my own home."

"Well, excuse me for venturing into this little den of dog hair and Lifetime,   
Television for   
Women, in - what is this now, my ninth or tenth attempt to guide you though the   
five   
stages of grief?"

"First of all, Rowdy doesn't shed. He keeps himself up very well, thank you   
very much.   
Secondly, there are six stages of grief, not five, Mr. Smarty Pants. And, you   
know, it   
really bothers me that we can go from having a nice moment here the other night   
right   
back to this LuAnne/Louise/Lola crap. You might think things are back to normal   
but I   
don't feel that way at all. Now, if you don't mind, I'm a little busy here." I   
held my bowl   
out towards him. "Spicy jalapeno pork rind?"

"I'll pass." He sat next to me on the couch. "Look, Annie, I know you found   
today to be   
a little, shall we say, trying."

It occurred to me as I looked at Dr. Cox that he had gone out of his way by   
coming to   
my apartment and that I should listen to what he had to say. "It had its ups   
and downs,"   
I admitted. "Wait, did you just call me Annie?"

"I've been calling you by women's names since the day we met, newbie. Try to   
keep up."

I didn't buy it. "That just seems like a very big coincidence considering -"

"That you spent your lunch hour crying into your mashed potato sculpture to the   
strains   
of Colorado's surrogate son, John Denver?" I nodded, and Dr. Cox continued.   
"That's   
because I had you followed today, Frances."

That certainly explained that feeling of being watched that I hadn't had all   
day. "I don't   
understand."

Dr. Cox shrugged noncommittally. "Eh, it was easier than you'd think. Just   
promise Mr.   
Levine that there's a magnet in it for him, and he'll do anything you ask."

And here I had been so sure it was the janitor. I still didn't have an   
explanation for how   
he knew about my favorite socks. "No, I mean, why?"

"Death does crazy things to people," he said. "Somebody's gotta look after you   
and, for   
reasons that escape me, I've taken that task upon myself. You've been working   
hard, as   
hard as I do. And by God, that's just not like you at all."

"It's Sister Utherina recommended," I told him. "You don't get to be 87 years   
old by   
giving bad advice."

"Now that may very well be the dumbest thing I've ever heard you say, Catherine,   
but   
I'm going to let it slide because I've got the cure for what ails you."

"You've figured out a way to reanimate the dead?" I asked hopefully.

"Correction: _that_ was the dumbest thing I've ever heard you say." Dr.   
Cox rolled   
his eyes. "No, Gretchen, I'm here to offer my sexual services."

I nearly choked on a pork rind. "What?"

"I'm willing to take one for the team, here, newbie. Mr. Levine reports that   
Barbie's out   
of the running and since you've already slept with every living member of my ex-  
wife's   
immediate family, I'm afraid I'll have to do."

Dr. Cox looked at me and I found his expression as difficult to read as the   
janitor's   
handwriting. "Are you serious?" I asked him.

"As scleroderma," he said, and his expression softened a little as he went on.   
"Look,   
Victoria. We both know I don't do anything if it doesn't in some way benefit   
me. So I'd   
be remiss if I didn't tell you that lately, no matter what I've been doing, I've   
wanted to   
do this."

And then the unthinkable happened. Or what would have been the unthinkable   
about   
half an hour ago. Dr. Cox kissed me. Dr. Cox kissed me and I liked it. Dr.   
Cox kissed   
me and I liked it and I kissed him back.

I knew I tasted like pork rinds and tears, and I should've been freaking out at   
the way he   
was slipping his hands under my shirt, but it was, in some weird way, the only   
thing   
that had made sense since my dad died.

And then, like a tetherball, I snapped back to reality. "What a minute," I   
said, pulling   
away. "You're taking advantage of my father's death by using it as an excuse to   
sleep   
with me?"

He appeared to ponder this. "Pretty much."

I nodded. "Just so we're clear." I kissed him again, wondering how something   
like this   
would affect our professional relationship. And then I thought about how sex   
affected   
my professional relationship with Elliot and knew things would be awkward and   
uncomfortable and Dr. Cox might even act like he hated me. In other words, I   
knew it   
wouldn't affect things at all.

"Can I be the top?" I asked him, unbuckling his pants.

He pulled my shirt off over my head. "Not a chance in hell, Bettina."

 

 

 


End file.
